Sherlock vs Sherlock
by kd1190
Summary: A person has disappeared and Sherlock is the only one who can find him. The road ahead leads to danger, sorrow, and more than he expects. the struggles about his past, present, and future. could this change his life forever?
1. Chapter 1

Watson was shuffling up the stairs to his flat mumbling to himself yet again.

"I swear if I didn't go out shopping we'd be stuck eating those toes in the fridge! Can't he get off his bloody ass and get the groceries for-"

As John trudged into the living room he suddenly stopped talking because he just barely avoided getting hit in the head by the TV remote. It had hit the wall at such an immense speed that if he hadn't ducked, he would surely be in a large amount of pain. He stood there for a few seconds looking at Sherlock and back to the wall where there was now a dent.

"Oh come on, John. It's not like you almost got killed or something. At the most you'd get a bruise" Sherlock stated as he stretched across his chair in annoyance. John shuffled into the kitchen to put the groceries away while talking to Sherlock.

"Why? Just why?" John asked in exasperation. Sherlock sighed and let his head fall against the arm of the chair.

"Because I'm BORED! B-O-R-E-D!" he shouted. Watson walked over and dropped a bag of crisps in his lap.

"Yes, we all know you can spell. Now eat something. You haven't even touched any food since your last case." Sherlock threw the crisps back at John.

"I'm fasting." John rolled his eyes.

"I guess if you're fasting then you can't have any of the lovely chocolate I bought. I hid it somewhere and you'll never find it." Sherlock looked John up and down trying to find any clue on where he hid it. He came up blank.

"Please god don't say you hid it in your pants!" Johns head quickly snapped up at Holmes.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock rolled his eyes in irratation.

"I meant in your pocket. It'll melt there." Johns face turned a bright red.

"No, it's not in my pocket." Sherlock lazily stood up and dragged himself to the kitchen.

"You know, I'm starting to hate living with you. You're learning new ways to make me do things." John just sat there smirking.

"I love living with you too!" Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he tore apart the kitchen looking for the chocolate. John heard quite a lot of huffing and puffing coming from the kitchen. Sherlock was rummaging through the clutter on the counters, throwing letters, newspapers, invitations, books, and boxes everywhere. "Tell me where they are!" A paper flew here."You're fasting, remember Sherlock?" A book flew there. "Yes, but that was 2 minutes ago!" And boxes were everywhere. Suddenly the noises coming from the kitchen stopped.

"FOUND IT! Haha, John you're getting lazy with your hiding places." Sherlock nibbled on the chocolate in triumph as he happily strolled back to the living room. He then perched himself into the chair looking like a 6-year old who had found out that they were going to Disneyland. John laughed at how silly Sherlock looked. Before Sherlock could make a witty comeback about how his date went last night, Johns' phone went off. John started at the phone for a minute before looking up at Sherlock very confused.

I just got a text from your brother."

"Great. What does the queen want now?" Sherlock said while rolling his eyes. John bit his lip.

"It says that James Johnson has gone missing. This is a bit complicated, but he knows you will help the minute you hear the name." Sherlock slowly looked up at John with a hint of shock showing on his face.

"Hey Sherlock, why is that name so important?" John carefully studied Sherlocks' face, waiting for an answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat in intense thought. His eyes closed gently while his hands clasped together in front of his face. John just sat there, observing Sherlock. He knew that this pose meant that a plan was formulating inside of Sherlock's complex mind. He had discovered this about Sherlock because of all the cases they had worked together. Sherlock had named this pose his 'Mind Palace.' John didn't understand it at first, but after a few more of his clever postures, everything became clear to him.

After a while, Sherlock quickly opened his eyes and sat upright.

" Its nothing but a old case but I'm going to need to go see Mycroft. We need more information."

John sat there looking confused. He wondered what made this case so special. Of course, there were a few special cases that Sherlock had wanted in the past, but none of them seemed to catch Sherlock's eye.

"So why is this case so important to you?" John asked as he rose out of the chair. He wanted some answers.

"It's not important. I just need more information and anyway, there were no other cases that were out there. Do you want me to be bored?" he teased. John recalled the last time Sherlock became bored. That wasn't too fun. For Sherlock, maybe it was a bit amusing. For him...not so much.

"Sherlock, you know that I locked up all of the guns in the house, don't you?"

"'Course I do. But, you forget i know how to pick locks and open vaults anyway there are other way to have fun, you know."

John didn't want to think about it. There were endless possibilities of what Sherlock could do.

"Alright, let's go then. Wouldn't want you blowing up the flat."

Sherlock grinned.

"There's my good man."

Sherlock and John both snatched their jackets off of the coat hangers. John was actually surprised that Sherlock cared to hang it up this time. After they had entered the taxi, nothing much was said.

Silence for John was always awkward. For Sherlock, that was a different story. It meant time to think and concentrate. So silence was always one of those things that Sherlock enjoyed. That is, until John started to speak.

"So...Sherlock, um...I noticed that you got a new scarf."

"John, don't speak. Things are much better without people babbling on about things that I don't care for. Besides, if I did, I wouldn't talk about them out loud."

There was not much talking after that.

After the uncomfortable ride (at least it was awkward for John), they had finally arrived at Mycrofts place.

"John, I want you to wait here while I go talk to him" Sherlock commanded. John was a bit surprised at the tone of his voice. This was certainly a conversation that Sherlock didn't want him to hear. Sherlocks' eyes were piercing into Johns' looking as serious as ever. After Sherlock had decided that John would stay right where he was, (considering the faint glimmer of fear in his face) he wandered into the office, and over towards the door.

Sherlock had managed to close the door while looking at John giving him a 'you better listen to me' face before the door clicked shut. John was left standing alone in the living room. He stood there for a minute pondering over what in the world made Sherlock so defensive and stern. He had never really gave John this type of lecture unless something was going on.

Of course John wasn't going to stay here. He wasn't a dog. Sherlock wasn't his master. In a matter of seconds John sneaked over to the door. Gently, he placed his ear against the wood. At first, he started to curse the fact that Mycrofts' office doors where so thick. All he could apprehend were little words here and there. Suddenly there was yelling. Yelling that John didn't need to stand next to the door to hear.

John then had a thought. What if Sherlock opened the door right now and John was standing here? Certainly Sherlock would give him another lecture, and he would be insulted even more than usual. He then quickly scurried over to the couch just in case one of then rushed out.

As he settled on the sofa, John could hear Sherlock's voice getting more audible.

"Mycroft, I am not refusing to do this because I'm going to get emotionally involved. I've been told by others I don't have any!" That was followed by a loud slam then a crash. John reckoned someone pounded on the desk and something tumbled off.

"Then why not?" There was a small pause.

"I'm busy! I have a case!" John knew that was a bold-faced lie. He hadn't had a case in weeks. Although, he did do a little detective work this morning. But finding chocolate isn't considered a case.

"Sherlock, he was your closest friend! You can not let this just rest!" John froze. This was definitely not what he was expecting to hear. Things had never gotten this serious between Sherlock and Mycroft. Well, maybe it had, but John certainly didn't want to be near when it happened.

He could hear someone stomping across the room. The doors were then thrown open with much theatrics.

"John, we are leaving now!" Not waiting for John, Sherlock stormed out in a huff and marched outside.

After John was sure Sherlock had left the building, John peeked at Mycroft who sat at his desk. The door to the office was open wide. His head in his hands. John hadn't seen Mycroft this upset in his entire life. Of course, he hadn't known Mycroft for a long time but still...He couldn't imagine seeing Mycroft this distressed.

John quickly turned back to leave. He didn't want Mycroft to see him spying on him. That would be hard to explain.

As he headed out the door, he spotted Sherlock in the taxi. That same taxi was heading down the street. Without John. This only happens when something is seriously wrong. And now he had his proof.

He sprinted towards the taxi, trying to signal the driver to stop. Unfortunately, the car was too far ahead, and he couldn't keep up. The speed of the taxi didn't help his situation either. He finally stopped running, breathing hard. John sighed in exasperation and walked home the rest of the way. He considered many things he could say to Sherlock when he arrived there. But he wanted answers from Sherlock, so he decided he better keep his mouth shut.

After a long dreadful two hours of walking, he reached their flat. He noticed Sherlock sitting in his chair watching TV.

"Why didn't you wait for me? " John asked in annoyance.

"I didn't notice you weren't here. You know, you really need let people know you're not here."

John sighed, feeling exhausted. "So you never noticed me running along the car screaming 'Sherlock stop?'" Sherlock thought that over for a few seconds.

"I didn't notice a thing." Sherlock tried to seem unconcerned. John just shook his head and thought to himself typical Sherlock. He then plopped in his usual chair, feeling very exhausted, and wondering what just happened.

Mycrofts words were gnawing at Johns brain. Who was Sherlock's closest friend, and why should Sherlock care for him? Sherlock never cares for anyone. Ever. Unless it's someone really special. But then why would Sherlock deny any involvement with him? It was very puzzling.

Sherlock snatched Johns laptop off the table and placed it on his lap. John usally would snap at Sherlock for taking his laptop, but he wanted information from Sherlock. Information he assumed wouldn't come easy without a lot of questioning. So he let it slide. This time, at least.

John placed his hands on his face, running over ways on how to approach Sherlock about the case.

Sherlock examined John out of the corner of his eye. He knew why John was so quiet. Mycroft had such a big mouth that everyone in the world probably heard him. It would be no big surprise if he heard the whole thing. Sherlock went back to his work, knowing that he would be interrupted. He didn't know how long it would take for John to find the right words. He would be busy with the laptop until then.

John shuffled into the kitchen and seized a small treat from the fridge, hoping it would help him get some answers. He then trudged right back into the living room, and perched himself right in front of Sherlock.

"So, what's so interesting about this 'James Johnson'" John asked, hoping that the question would get him something. He studied Sherlock, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock slowly looked up from the laptop. Was this seriously the best John could come up with?

"Nothing really. Just a unique kidnapper who now has seemed to disappear" Sherlock replied quickly. He then went back to the laptop. He typed away, knowing that John wasn't done with his interrogation yet.

"Then why did Mycroft say he was your closest friend?" John asked while playing with something in his pocket. He was trying to look casual. Of course, it didn't work on Sherlock. He knew what John was doing.

"Because he was" Sherlock stated, starting to get annoyed. His typing became a little louder. He was starting to wish John would just piss off.

Wow. Sherlock had a closest friend. Sounded like an even closer friend than himself. He wanted more answers though.

John acquired a small piece of chocolate out of his pocket and threw it to him.

"Here."

Hopefully he would take the piece and tell him everything like a 10 year old boy. But he knew this would never work. Well, it was worth trying, wasn't it?

Sherlock looked up at him giving John his best glare, knowing it angered John.

"Are you trying to buy me off?"

John hated it when he glared. With his piercing eyes, it made it feel like he was tearing his body inside out.

"No, I just thought you would like some chocolate after today." Sherlock knew he was lying but he accepted the treat anyway. He threw it on his desk. He already digested one, and if he had a second piece it would just slow him down. He then went back to his laptop, hoping to to god that he would just leave him alone already.

After a few minutes of silence, John decided to try again. "You never answered me."

Sherlock let out a low growl and shut Johns laptop with a slam. Now he was on the verge of throwing something.

"So, you really wanna know." John definitely did not like the look on Sherlock's face. His piercing glare was in full effect. This was the one he only used on people that really pissed him off. Like Jim, for example.

John gave a hesitant nod. He was almost scared of what Sherlock was going to do next.

Sherlock gradually closed his eyes and sighed gently before answering in a low, quiet voice.

"I lied. It wasn't a case. He was a kid I met in my teens. He was a lot like you, actually." John smiled. Finally he had gotten some answers. There was more.

"His mind was filled with useless facts. He was boring and calm. Oh, and he followed me around like a puppy dog. Just like you do. He also has an IQ as low as yours. But I assumed that because you both fill your mind with useless facts and yours is not well tuned like mine. Life must have been as easy for you two. Not thinking. He assumed he was my friend. But as it's been said before, I don't have friends. Mycroft said he was my friend. But this is the same man that has a obsession with umbrellas, so I wouldn't trust his opinion." There was bite to Sherlocks words. As soon as he was done speaking, he reopened John's laptop. John could mull over his words for a while. He now had more time to work.

John just sat there pissed off. All he did was ask a question. He wasn't expecting a full on insulting party.

Sherlocks words were affecting him. I don't have useless facts, and I don't have a low IQ. Who the hell does he think he is? Earlier today, he ordered me to stay in the same spot like I was a dog! He doesn't realize who he's talking to! After those thoughts (and much more inapporpriate thoughts) boiled inside of him, he kept on getting angrier and angrier until he couldn't take it anymore. He suddenly snapped at Sherlock.

"You know what? They where right. You have no emotions ."

And with that, John stormed to his room closing the door behind him with a slam. Sherlock would have noticed, but there was something else more important on his mind.

John paced around him room, thinking about how cruel Sherlock was to him today. How dare he treat him like this...but wait. Sherlock didn't respond to him. That was definitely not a good sign. Whenever something was really bothering Sherlock, he would always keep to himself, and never answer to anything or anyone.

John slowly sat on his bed, suddenly feeling horrible. What have I done? None of this was his business anyway...

John gradually stood and crept into the living room.

"Hey Sherlock?" He received no response. He walked closer to Sherlock's chair.

"Um, Sherlock?"

Still nothing. Things didn't look too good.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Sherlock still would not answer him. He just stared into space.

"I'm really sorry. About what I said. The whole emotions thing. I didn't mean it."

Once again, there was nothing. Finally, John sat on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "Sherlock, I'm really sorry, ok. Please don't do this."

Sherlock suddenly realized John was talking to him. How did he get over here? I thought he was still sitting across from him.

"What John?"

"I, I was just saying I'm sorry. For...For what i said. It wasn't ...you know...right." John looked at the ground in defeat as he stumbled over his words. He was embarrassed.

Sherlock looked over at John with a very what-do-I-do-next face.

"This is where I say thank you or something like that, right?"

John couldn't help but smile. Sherlock was a genius but when it came to social interaction, he was lost. "Yes Sherlock, this is where you say 'thank you or something like that'."

"Thank you." He left the last word in a high pitch making it seem almost like a question.

Sherlock suddenly pulled his phone out. "Hey John, can you run over to Lestrades office?"

"Why?" John asked, looking very perturbed.

"He just sent me a text saying he needs me, and because I can't possibly leave the house at this moment. You can go and see what he wants."

Sherlock hoped that John would leave.

After all that just happened, John didn't want to upset him more. So he just snatched his jacket and left without a word.

As the door shut quietly, Sherlock allowed a big smirk to spread across his face.


	3. Chapter 3

John stormed out of the taxi. He was infuriated. Sherlock had just sent him on a wild goose chase. Upon arriving at Lestrade's, he noticed that the detective didn't even bother to unlock the door to his office. Secondly, Lestrade wasn't even there. So he called Greg and asked if Sherlock had explained the case to him. He had not. So, he had traveled all the way to Lestrade's office to discover he had never even told him about the case. John told the detective that he been tricked. He left the office, stating that if he needed them, he would be in their flat. Upset, he called a cab and jumped in.

"221B Baker Street, please." While the cabbie started traveling back towards the flat, he speculated about Sherlock.

Why would Sherlock would do this?...Maybe he just needed to get rid of his companion for a bit. But why had he been so secretive about it this time? He was accustomed to getting thrown out. It was usually because Sherlock needed to visit his mind palace. However, something was not right here. He was not used to being tricked out of this own house.

"Sir? We're here."

He was so determined to figure out what Sherlock was doing that was so special, that he didn't even notice they at arrived at their flat.

"Oh, sorry. Here's the tip. Thanks."

John departed from the cab and headed into the flat. As he opened the wooden door to the lodging, he noticed something was wrong. There where papers scattered across the living room. Not one paper was laid neatly on the desk. They were all thrown across the flat, including the couch. But that's not what threw him off. Sherlock's chair laid on it's side. Never once was Sherlock's chair askew. It was always perfect, and the consulting detective always cared for it. How odd. Also, there was a broken mug beside it. The pieces were sprinkled along the chair and the table.

All in all, the house looked ransacked. It seemed like Sherlock was looking for his cigarettes, but this time it was far worse. The only thing to still be in its proper place was his skull. It was still sitting in its regular place on the mantel.

John, assuming that someone had been searching through their flat, laid his hand across his gun. Maybe the stranger is still in here...He was delighted that he had managed to snatched his weapon before he left the flat.

He carefully made his way into the living room. It was eerily quiet. John gradually twisted his head to towards the couch. What he observed made him freeze in his tracks. "It Never Stops" was written in yellow spray paint on the wall above. John just stood there. That was Sherlock's handwriting. He had a unique way he spray-painted words on the wall.

John should have noticed the writing earlier. Sherlock constantly splashed the wall with yellow liquid just to shoot at it. And not just with the gun. Since John locked up Sherlocks' precious revolver, he had gotten quite creative. He had targeted the wall for arrows, darts, knives, scissors, pencils, the harpoon, and his dagger. Basically the wall was littered with anything Sherlock could get his hands on.

Realizing that there was no stranger or intrusion in the house, John upholstered his weapon. He then followed the chaos into the kitchen. The doctor was surprised to discover some of Sherlocks experiments trashed. Broken beakers, petri dishes, and one of his microscopes covered the floor. Again, Sherlock would never destroy any of his experimental materials. This was even more startling.

John meandered closer towards the counters and suddenly heard a splashing sound. He froze and looked around the room, expecting someone to appear. Taking another step, he heard the noise again. Gazing downwards, Watson realized that he had trampled on a puddle of water.

Why was there water in the kitchen? The sink wasn't on. He opened the cupboard under the basin. It wasn't leaking...So where was it coming from? As he scrutinized the water, he noticed that there was a crimson color starting to mix with the water.

John's heart stopped. Being a doctor, John was used to seeing blood all the time. This was different. This could be Sherlocks blood. The blood of his best friend.

John's eye followed the water-blood mix trail. It led to the fridge, and continued on towards the hallway. Reminding himself to breath every few seconds, he sneaked onwards. The blood had transformed into a darker color as he traversed through the hallway.

He also picked up the sound of running water. Something was definitely up.

The dangerous path led into the bathroom, and the door was partially ajar. Keeping composure, he inched his way towards the room. Whatever was in there was not going to be a pretty sight. With one last breath, he layed his hand flat against the door, and gently pushed it open. He almost fainted at what he found.

There in the bathtub, over flowing with blood-water, was Sherlock wrapped in a sheet. It was clinging to his wet body as he lay limp in the water. His head was leaning up against the brick wall. One wrist was laying on the edge of the tub as the other was slightly submerged in the water.

John stopped breathing completely. It was like time froze. Why? He kept on thinking that one word over and over and over. John didn't know how long he stood there breathing, staring at Sherlock. It could of been ten seconds. It could have been a minute. Hell, it could have even been five minutes. He didn't know.

The second he snapped back into reality, he was at Sherlocks side. Checking to see his medical state, he pulled the one wrist out of the water. It had been slit open. His breathing stopped again. Gently, he laid his wrist back in the water. John reminded himself to keep breathing. He took Sherlocks pulse on the other hand. It was extremely weak. Barely even there. Barely even alive. Again, John stopped breathing. He stared at his friends' hands, hoping...just hoping.

Reminding himself yet again that he should breathe, and that he was the only one who could help him, John took in the situation. The faucet to the bathtub had been on for a while and it was overflowing. He reached over the detective and twisted the knob backwards. Ok, so he should probably call for help because if Sherlock didn't get any medical attention, he would probably be dead very soon.

He pulled out his cell. His hands were shaking so intensely. John tried to dial Lestrade's number but found that he couldn't place his finger over the numbers.

"Dammit!" John shouted. He was so frustrated. John tried dialing again. He had managed to push a few numbers, but on the last one he had dialed an 8 instead of a 9. He cursed loudly. He was about to hurl his phone at the wall when he remembered something. He had Lestrade on speed-dial. He pressed 5 and waited. And waited. And waited even more. His hopes were almost drained. Right before it went to voicemail, Greg finally answered.

"Hey, John. What do you need?"

John could barely speak. He felt like his throat was about to burst. John stuttered and stumbled over his words.

"He-Help m-me. Sh-Sherlock's h-hurt."

"What? What's going on over there?"

He was about to burst into tears.

Sniffling, he shouted, "Please! Just c-call an am-ambulance!" There was a few seconds of silence. He heard Lestrade moving around.

"Where are you?"

Where the hell else would he be?

"At the fl-flat!"

"On my way! And John, I want you to stay on the ph-" John hung up on him. He needed to examine the worst of Sherlock's wounds. And complete silence was necessary for that. But his emotions overtook him.

John tentatively slid against the side of the tub. "Sherlock...please...just don't...don't give up...for me...just fight." John pleaded as tears streamed down his eyes. He wanted to believe that Sherlock was going to be alright. He really wanted to. No, he needed to.

Sobbing, John swiftly took out his handkerchief and gently wrapped his handkerchief around Sherlock's wrist. The wrist where Sherlock had cut himself. John held the limp, pale hand. He wanted to give Sherlock some sense that his best friend was still here. For five minutes John just sat there. Waiting. Hoping.

Finally, John heard Lestrade hustling up the stairs. He was talking to someone, explaining to them what he had heard.

John and sprinted towards the living room and opened the door in a flash.

Sherlock opened one eye and peeked. Good. John thought that he was actually committing suicide. Things were going according to plan...Except of course, the whole 'he-lost-to-much-blood-he-fainted' thing. That part was kind of frightening. But that was alright because the cavalry had arrived. He quickly closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious.

Two EMT's stormed in followed by Lestrade, Donavon and Anderson. The three detectives stopped in their tracks and gawked at John. They were not expecting John to be so upset and disheveled. Of course, Lestrade knew John was troubled. He heard John stumble upon his words, but Greg did not expect it to be this severe.

John's face was a shade of white. Dried tears were clearly visible. His auburn eyes were wide open, rimmed with red tint, and they were dilated. He was in shock.

John, not noticing the detectives' facial expressions of bewilderment, followed close behind the EMT's. The paramedics knew exactly where Sherlock was located, and they bolted towards him. So John tried to bolt as well. Only he couldn't.

His legs felt like jelly, and sweat began to appear on his forehead. He began breathing rapidly. Greg noticed John's condition and advanced towards him.

"John...John?"

He wanted to get to Sherlock...This can't be happening...

"Just...help me get to Sher-Sherlock." he gasped.

Greg had managed to support John and together they trudged into the bathroom. John was about to collapse when he finally arrived to the scene. He leaned up against the wall in exhaustion and shut his eyes.

Upon arriving at the scene, the three detectives were dumbfounded. They could not believe their eyes...They had not realized how grim the situation was until they had witnessed it for themselves.

John heard some of the contraptions that the paramedics were placing around Sherlock. He also heard them communicating with each other, establishing his medical condition.

"We have a male, approximate age: 30. Patient slit himself with some type of razor on his right carpal. He is now hemorrhaging, class five."

John felt like he was in a trance, and his knees were shaking uncontrollably

"Vital signs: 85 over 50. Rate: 115 and irregular. Respiration: 28. He's unconscious could go into v-fib any second. If we don't get him assistance right now, he could be dead in a matter of minutes..."

Dear god...he should of done something different! When he was alone with Sherlock, he should have saved his best friend instead of just holding his hand! Angry at himself, and slowly regaining some of his balance, he reopened his eyes.

The two EMT's finished acquiring his friends' medical state. They were positioned at each end of the tub, and they reached out, one of them grabbing Sherlock's torso and the other, his feet. The limp, pale mortal hung in their hands.

Why are they lifting him up like that? Isn't he going to bleed to death? How come they aren't helping him?

The paramedics placed Sherlock on a stretcher and gently laid a blanket over his torso. John slid a hand over his face, hoping that this nightmare would end.

While they strapped him in, John had managed to stand upright on his own without leaning on the wall. Greg reached out for him, thinking that he was going to collapse.

"I'm fine...I'm fine..." the doctor uttered. Lestrade wasn't convinced.

'Everything is going to be okay now' John thought to himself. 'He's getting help...'

Before they could even wheel him out, Anderson made a comment.

"You know what I think? I think this was bound to happen. The psychopath was going to make a move sooner or later." This was followed by sounded agreement made by Donavon.

John, fuming with hatred, stormed over to Anderson. He gave him the most menacing scowl he could produce. This was a very frightening sight, hence Anderson took a few steps backwards.

John screamed and then lurched towards him. He slammed Anderson into the ground, and started punching him over and over. The detective tried to protect himself by placing his hands in front of his face, but he was unsuccessful. John's punches were to powerful and Anderson lost consciousness after a few strikes. But still John kept on throwing blows. Greg had to stop him before he murdered someone. He swiftly seized John, wrenching him away from Anderson.

"Let go of me!" John hollered. Greg reluctantly obeyed.

Donavon was just watching the scene unravel itself while all of this happened. She suddenly gasped. That drew the attention of John.

"I don't hit girls. Luckily you are one." John snarled as he glared at her. Suddenly, he thought he heard Sherlock let out a snicker. Turning towards him, he saw that he was still as limp and gone as he was before.

John growled angrily. A man is dying and they say that! He was enraged. His mouth had gone dry, and his jaw was tight.

Lestrade observed John and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's gonna be ok" he said comfortingly.

"I certainly hope so..." The EMT's progressed out the door, hauling Sherlock in the stretcher. John followed, leaving Lestrade and Donavon with the unconscious Anderson


	4. Chapter 4

John stood alone in the hospital. He was outside of Sherlocks' room pacing back and forth repeatedly.  
>When they arrived at the emergency room, the paramedics explained the crude situation that Sherlock had placed himself in and the doctors described the wounds that he had inflicted upon himself. John wasn't paying attention to their chatter. He kept his eyes on his friend the whole time.<br>During their medical diagnosis, they had been hustling through the hallways. John was rushing alongside Sherlock. He found it quite easy to keep up, since he and his friend were always running around in the streets of London. Now John was running for a different reason.  
>"It'll be alright. You'll see." He wasn't sure if he was saying that to Sherlock or himself at that point. It didn't matter though. It was comforting him.<br>Finally, they had all arrived in the operating room. Sherlock was rushed inside the doorway, and quickly placed alongside the operating table. John had managed to push himself in between the door.  
>How could this happen? "Jesus..." John moaned. If only he had been there to protect him, none of this would have happened...<br>The surgeons finally noticed John was in the room.  
>"Get him out of here!" one of them screamed.<br>"No! I can help! I'm a doctor! Let me come through, please!" Three nurses quickly came towards John blocked his view from Sherlock.  
>"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave" one of them said calmly.<br>"Please!" he begged. They wouldn't move. He couldn't see Sherlock. His friend. His _only_ friend. Frustrated, he tried to push away some of the nurses. "He's my friend!" he wailed.  
>The two seized John by his arms. The detective's companion planted his feet into the ground, refusing to move. The third nurse just stood there, staring at John. She was feeling empathetic.<br>The grip on John's forearm was getting tighter and tighter by the second. Soon he began to lose his hold on where he stood. John was losing the fight. The nurses dragged him closer and closer towards the door while his feet scraped across the floor. He desperately tried to anchor his sneakers into the polished floor, but to no avail.  
>Sobbing, he cried out "Please!"<br>Unfortunately, they had reached the entrance. The third nurse rushed up towards the door. Feeling guilty, she swiftly opened it for John. She didn't make eye contact with him.  
>The other two nurses clutched his forearms and, with a lot of effort, threw him out into the hallway.<br>"Don't make things harder on yourself" one of them murmured.  
>Shutting the door with a smash, they turned their backs and rushed back towards the table. The third nurse stayed for one moment more. Her gaze slowly creeped up towards John's head. Regret was written all over her face.<br>"I'm sorry" she mouthed. Promptly, she shut the blinds.  
>Why couldn't he help? He was an actual doctor! Baffled, John rushed up towards the glass window and tried to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. He saw nothing. The shades were sealed perfectly shut.<br>So now he was stuck outside the room, pacing. Back and forth, and back and forth. He couldn't count how many times he had touched the two walls. He was wondering what they were doing, and if it was helping him. Did he survive? If he did, does he have brain damage? Did he lose to much blood? Oh god, I could have done something else!  
>John glanced down at his nails. They were torn down and only the nail was left. He bit them all down so much it started to hurt. As he looked at them, he grinned. If Sherlock was here he would make a comment and ask if he was planning to have his hands for dinner. Biting his nails was something he hadn't done in a long time. He thought the habit was gone. Apparently it was back.<br>The door suddenly opened and his heart stopped. A doctor stepped out and made eye contact with John. He scanned the doctors' expression, trying to use some of the deducing skills he learned from Sherlock. In a result, he attained absolutely nothing. Maybe he was too panicked.  
>While John was scrutinizing the doctor, other surgeons, medics, and nurses departed from the room. Finally, the last person exited.<br>Afterwards, the medical doctor addressed John: "You can go in now. He's stable, but very weak, so I would let him rest." John just nodded and quickly walked in.  
>There, on the hospital bed, laid Sherlock. It appeared that the detective was still faraway and unconscious, so he was unresponsive when John entered the room. Pale as a ghost, Sherlock had been hooked up to a million different wires. They had been inserted into his arms, inside his gown, and those wires led to machines that were placed all around him. John heard the frequent beeping noises emanating from the strange contraptions, and that put him on edge.<br>"Oh God..." John slowly shuffled around Sherlock and examined him. He noticed that they had put a large bandage around his wrist where he had slashed himself. Why? What possible reason could he have for doing this?  
>He then settled himself in a chair next to Sherlocks bed, never taking his eyes off of his best friend. John just sat there, staring at the consulting detective...wondering. He became engrossed in his thoughts.<br>Sherlock never did anything like this...he never showed any of his feelings to the world...well it seemed like he didn't have any. Oh god...that's why. Back in the flat, he had said that Sherlock had no emotions...Sherlock didn't respond to what he said or even acknowledge his apology. He took it seriously, and believed it to be true. Dear god...what have I done? He placed his elbows on his knees and gently let his head fall into his hands. Tears started falling freely from his eyes. One drop after the other collided with the ground.  
>Sherlock peeked one eye open. He didn't expect John to react this severely. Suddenly, Sherlock started to feel remorseful. John knew he was going to be alright...So why is he still troubled? Is this what it feels like to be guilty? Strange. He quickly shut his one eye again.<br>John grasped Sherlock's limp hand from the bed. The detective's hands were pale and cold. John tried to warm them up, so he clasped his own hands into his friends'.  
>"Why Sherlock...just...why?" John sniffled through the tears, staring at his friends' hands.<br>Sherlocks eyes started to flutter open. He began looking about the room, pretending to be confused. John didn't spot him 'waking up', so he mumbled something unintelligible to get his attention.  
>Hearing the murmur, John looked at his best friend with hope in his eyes. He was awake.<br>"Sherlock!" he exclaimed.  
>Holmes turned to him with an exhausted expression on his face. Their eyes met.<br>"John."  
>It came out of his mouth, sounding no louder then a hushed whisper.<br>"Oh Sherlock!" John lunged on top the bed and the detective received a bone-crushing hug.  
>"Ouch!" Sherlock squeaked. It had, in fact, actually hurt. John's hugs were rare. One, because Sherlock wouldn't allow it, and two, because they were pretty painful when he did allow it.<br>John, for a moment, forgot how fragile and damaged the man was. He was just so delighted that Sherlock was alive.  
>"Sorry...I just thought you where a goner." John stared at Sherlock, barely believing he was here.<br>The detective started to feeling a bit uncomfortable. He didn't like being gazed upon for more than ten seconds...It was just a bit unnatural for him.  
>To break the silence, he stated "Well, I'm here and I'm kinda hurt...So don't try to break me in two again."<br>John and Sherlock both smirked.  
>"The minute you are, I'm smacking you!" he joked. Sherlock was puzzled by his humor.<br>"But...Why?" The reality of Sherlocks' situation finally hit John. And that make him enraged. He stood up from the chair, giving Sherlock an angry look that could kill a man.  
>"You tried to kill yourself! Did you even realize the effect that this would have on anyone?" he shouted. "Wait! Don't answer! I already know what you're going to say!" John barked furiously. He continued: "You don't even care if it broke me apart. If you haven't realized it, you idiotic genius, you are my best friend! I'm starting to doubt if I am yours!" John words had a impudent growl and bite to them. Infuriated, he stormed over to his seat beside Holmes. He sat there, glaring at him.<br>Sherlock avoided eye contact and contemplated what John had expressed. Sherlock's heart (yes he has one!) suddenly felt very heavy. This was just supposed to be a part of the plan. He needed Johns' reaction for this to go perfectly. Now it seemed like it was going too well.  
>Sherlock scrutinized John. Holmes only had one friend. Now he was scared that he would lose him. And all of this was over a stupid case.<br>The detective looked at John in the eye. "I'm sorry."  
>It was just a whisper but John heard it. He sighed. At least he realized that what he did was wrong. Plus, he couldn't be angry at Sherlock forever.<br>"Can I just ask why?" Sherlock abruptly scanned the room and pretended that he didn't hear his comment. This went on for a minute or two. John just sat there, silent as a kitten.  
>His eyes traveled back towards John. "Please." Sherlock looked at his friend with pleading eyes. In John's point of view, Sherlock didn't want to talk about it because it was to painful. But in reality, revealing the truth would ruin the whole entire case. John decided to leave it alone. For now.<br>Suddenly John realized something. A very something that Sherlock would not like.  
>"Um... Sherlock you do know they are going to send you to a mental hospital, right? They want to make sure you get help." This made Sherlock smile on the inside. It was really quite difficult to make sure that he didn't grin on the outside because that would give away his plan.<br>He was finally getting where he needed to be. Sherlock put a troubled look on his face and replied to John: "I know...It was something I had to face if I survived."  
>That made John cringe. He gazed downwards upon the floor. He did not want to think about it if Sherlock hadn't survived. That would not have been very fun.<br>"Although, I do have one request." John looked up at him, confused.  
>"Ok?"<br>"Make sure they send me to Havenwick. It's the only place I won't be utterly bored in. If it costs too much, just talk to Mycroft. He'll help." John didn't understand why, but he agreed. Sherlocks' method was usually unorthodox, but he always had his reasons.  
>Sighing, John announced: "I'm going to talk to your doctor some more about your condition. You stay in bed, rest, and don't get out of bed unless me, or the other doctor tells you so. Got it?" John wanted to make sure that Sherlock understood him perfectly, and obeyed his orders. But Holmes was already in his own world, absorbed in his thoughts. His eyes were closed, while his hands were in clasped together in front of his face.<br>"Sherlock!" he yelled.  
>Sighing Sherlock said: "Yes, I know...Don't do anything rash. Now go have fun with your doctor."<br>How does he do that? thought John. He arose from the chair and advanced towards the door.  
>"I'm also going to call Mycroft to see if he can get you in Havenwick, or whatever the place is called." John grasped the handle of the door, turned it, and headed out. The second that the door closed, a big smile came across Sherlocks face. It didn't last that long because the door opened again, and his face changed right back to sadness. John's head popped back in for a second.<br>"Seriously, though. Get some rest while I'm gone, alright?" Sherlock nodded, looking innocent. John smiled, feeling that he had accomplished something. He then strolled out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone in the room.


End file.
